Manipulation
by Blissful Lissy
Summary: A meeting between Mello and Near is arranged under false pretenses. Playing games with one another is nothing new, but in a secluded hotel room, mixing stubborn and manipulative natures makes for an interesting time. Near's POV. M for lemon.
1. Arrangement

**Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note, nor do I profit from writing this.**

* * *

It echoed through the speakers – a voice that needed no introduction.

"Let me speak to Near." There he goes, demanding things immediately. His manner of speaking would lead many to assume he didn't think the speakerphone would be on, but I know Mello better than that.

Rester casts a glance in my direction, clearly expecting me to respond. I simply hold my hand out for the phone and he places the receiver in my palm, likely wondering why I wish to keep this conversation private. The press of a button shuts off the speakerphone.

"Mello." Telephone etiquette has never been something I cared to master.

He gets straight to the point. "I require a private meeting with you." Typical Mello. He truly believes that a meeting with me is a need, rather than a mere desire. I'll humor him.

"Why is that?" I pick up a dart and let my finger wrap around the body, long and narrow.

"I sent Kanzo Mogi to you. The minimal amount of information you provided in return was of little use to me. You owe me more."

His reasoning is poor. I send the dart flying through the air, a bit aimlessly. It strikes the inner ring and bounces off. "Mogi is of little use to _me_. He remains stoic and unresponsive. I owe Mello little, if anything."

"Regardless. It was no easy feat, Near." Harsh noises fizzle through the earpiece; he is no doubt ripping foil from a bar of chocolate. "Besides, stoic and unresponsive are traits you should be familiar with." A loud snap signifies that his mouth is occupied with a large chunk of the sweet.

He couldn't resist slipping in a dig at my personality. Playing games with Mello is something I am used to, but he usually fails to have an ulterior motive. "Be that as it may, if Mello is in need of the information I have gathered on Kira, it is pitiable, as it suggests Mello's investigative abilities are lacking."

"That you have failed to pull information from Mogi implies the same thing about your own investigative abilities." With that cool reply, he has confirmed my suspicions inadvertently. Under other circumstances, insinuating that Mello is incompetent would result in him becoming angry and defensive. He is retaining his composure, which indicates that this telephone call was carefully planned and prepared for.

I knit a finger in my hair and begin to twist a lock. "It is absurd to continue attempting to offend one another this way. My point is I was led to believe that Mello had no intention of working with me on this case."

I hear the soft squeak of leather and can almost see him making himself more comfortable on the couch, chair, or whatever he happens to be reclining on, lean frame spread languidly, a notable achievement, considering the amount of leather he insists upon wearing. "I don't." The reply is too straightforward and I wait for him to go on. "My stance on cooperating with you remains the same. You used my recent actions against Kira to gather information; you used _me_. I'm returning the favor." There's an edge of bitterness, but he's keeping himself in check.

Is he honestly expecting me to agree to being used so blatantly? He must sense my skepticism, because he adds, "This will benefit both our investigations. Surely you can't pass up such a chance." Oh, Mello, is that your trump card? For the sake of this game, I'll play along.

"Very well. Give me the location and I will have Rester escort me." The Commander's head turns to face me. I ignore his unspoken rebuttal, as I won't be influenced by him; besides, we are simply waiting for Yagami's next move at this point.

Now, it is Mello's turn to be skeptical; he sounds almost flustered at first, but rights himself quickly and tells me the hotel's address. "There will be no need for Rester to attend the meeting."

"Right," I murmur, hand poised to break the connection. Before I hang up, the click of his receiver is accompanied by the snapping of chilled chocolate, followed by the hum of a dial tone.

-x-

Judging by his stance, it doesn't seem as if Mello arrived at the hotel long before Rester and I, though that may have been premeditated. His posture is stiff, back to me, clad in his crimson jacket in addition to his usual leather. Turning sharply on laced boots, Mello's ice-chip eyes zero in on me through the shadow that the hood casts upon his angular face. He looks out of place in the lavish suite (which I imagine I will end up paying for), but I imagine I fit in no better.

He swipes the hood from his head in a swift motion, exposing me to the scar that now ornaments his features; its appearance is rather jarring, though I show no external reaction.

Mello once exuded confidence. Even as a child at the orphanage, he took excessive pride in his appearance. He now radiates bitterness, yet I sense vulnerability. His hair has grown longer, blond wisps invading his face, a possible attempt to hide the marred scar tissue that dances across the left side of his face. Or perhaps it's just that without the mafia at his dispense, survival has taken precedence over petty things like appearance. I know Mello has joined up with Matt, formerly third-ranked at Wammy's; things might be difficult for them, but I would not offer my aid, knowing they don't have need of it. That he exposed himself to me may mean that my presence is non-threatening and he doesn't anticipate judgment on my part, or maybe he just does not consider me worthy of being spared the sight of the imperfection.

Neither of us is uncomfortable under the weight of the silence. After a few seconds of unabashed ogling on both our parts, a smirk blossoms on Mello's face, so wide it seems to split his face in half. That smile, however off-putting, proves that the old Mello lies dormant within him, though I suspect he hasn't indulged in a grin of that caliber in some time.

"Near," he states simply, turning to drape his discarded jacked on the back of an armchair, which he then sprawls himself out on, long arms elegantly falling about his frame. The slick quilted leather of his vest draws my eye to the scar that ends after spreading jaggedly along his shoulder. He doesn't offer me a seat, knowing that the prospect of him extending such an invitation would be laughable. A bar of chocolate is pulled from someplace hidden on his person and the grating tune of tearing foil assaults my ears. He places his tongue on the bittersweet food, not licking it, just letting it lie there inexplicably, pointlessly. The move may not be as casual as he makes it seem. "You haven't changed a bit." Blue eyes roam my white-clad frame, voice condescending.

I take my time replying, shuffling across the room to the armchair opposite his, which is conveniently large enough that I may assume my preferred sitting position, one knee drawn to my chest. Perching an elbow on my knee, I let my finger wander to my hair and entangle it in a single curl, twirling indolently. "Mello has changed a good deal, physically," I intone smoothly, returning his smirk from earlier. Something flickers across the slightly tanned face, as if he's been pinched, and I decide to continue before he can lure me into the territory of paltry conversation and bickering, as I know he wants to. "Though I doubt such frivolous discussion is the reason for Mello's requirement of a meeting with me."

In a flash of piano-key teeth, a crack pulsates through the quiet air of the room as a chunk of chocolate is transferred from its starting point into his mouth. "You already know why I requested a meeting with you."

I begin to regret agreeing to this. I was up to Mello's challenge, but this back-and-forth is inane and could drag on forever, so stubborn are we both. "I'm afraid I must claim ignorance. Now, Mello may have time to fritter away, but I do not have the same luxury. May we progress?"

He feigns annoyance, narrowing his sapphire orbs and letting his nose crinkle in a subtle leer; a possibly convincing performance if directed toward a different audience. It's clear he's aware that I see through the act and rises from his seat, no longer bothering to adopt an expression of anger. The leather that molds to his skin squeaks in complaint at the sudden movement and protests even more insistently as he slowly moves toward me with exaggerated swaying of slim hips; undeniably masculine yet gracefully feminine.

Long fingers curl around the armrests of my chair as he looms over me. My personal space being violated is immensely displeasing, but Mello has never minded invading me and has exploited this weakness of mine more times than I care to count or recall since we've known one another. We are playing a game, and I do not allow myself to pull away as his mouth finds my ear, though the desire overwhelms my body. I cannot help but tense, though, and if he notices my muscles seize, he makes no comment. "Gladly," he responds, voice a low purr; the single word is hot against the sensitive shell of my ear and I force myself to meet his eyes. The twirling of my hair that never once stopped during our exchange becomes more rapid; something about his close proximity is making my heart thump painfully.

The reason for this discomfort isn't my being naïve; I had been well aware what this meeting with Mello could possibly entail. He feels as though he has controlled me by persuading me to agree to this get-together; I've let him believe that I am none the wiser, but I believe he sees through my act, just as I've seen through his. As the situation progresses, I must exert some effort to keep my head clear, I'm having difficulties determining where and when the exploitation began and if it will end.

And as Mello dips down to kneel between my legs, fine golden hairs splayed upon the white linen of my pants, I can't shake the feeling that the manipulation began long before I picked up the phone earlier today; it has been a part of our relationship from the very beginning.

* * *

_A/N: This began as a writing exercise to explore the manipulative nature of Mello and Near's relationship (as well as a much needed break from my other fic). I had fun writing it, so I hope other people will enjoy reading it. I would like to continue for a little while and am considering making it into a two-shot, or a three-shot at most, likely containing a lemon (shocker!), hence the rating. I normally wouldn't ask this, but I'd appreciate some insight on this one, a few opinions on whether I should keep going or not. _

_Thanks so much for reading!_


	2. Meeting

_A/N: Wow, everyone. Nobody S. Storm, IKISAW, CrazyNerd14, PrincessPika, Sisyphean Effort, Mina1622, loochester…thanks so much for all that great feedback; it was really flattering and encouraging, especially from some people with so much talent. And thank you to everyone who subscribed/added this to their favorites/etc._

_I'm happy the first part was well-liked, and hoping you'll like this part even more. It was so much fun to write. I have to thank my RP partner (she knows who she is, but I'll neglect to name her in hopes to save her some potential embarrassment), because our RPs really inspire the exploration of the manipulative qualities of this relationship (and some of the dialogue at the end will look familiar to her, too)._

_Still not sure where I could go from here, or if I want to continue. We'll see.  
__Enough of my rambling. Please enjoy._

* * *

Maybe he expects me to foolishly ask, "What are you doing?" because his lips are curled upward in a leering smile. I don't give him the satisfaction, just gaze blankly down at him and try to ignore the long fingers that fumble with the loose material of my pants. I don't even think I am breathing as his nails travel from my thin ankle up to where my uncurled leg bends at the knee, and back down again. Aqua eyes bore into my own, the intensity of the gaze something I don't want to match.

He nuzzles his face into my inner thigh, high enough to cause unease. "Oddly affectionate, aren't we, Mello?"

He refutes, sinking teeth into my flesh, the only thing preventing blood from staining his mouth being thin white fabric. I spasm, jerking away from the unexpected pain, but a tingle prods at my groin, contradicting the pain of the fresh welt that sends a trickle of wet warmth slithering down my leg. It shouldn't be arousing, but maybe it wouldn't be if any other person were to do it.

"Feel good, Near?" he taunts, giving the growing bulge an almost ravenous look.

"I should ask Mello the same." I wind a lock of hair around my finger, tilting my head slightly so the cheek rests on the heel of my palm. His eyes flicker, as if he intends to make me regret saying that. It will be amusing to see him try.

His fingers linger at the hem of my pants, as if he's actually making a conscious effort to think about the possible repercussions of this act. The garments are yanked down and removed with little fuss, exposing my lower body to the conflict of startlingly cool air and warm chocolate breath. I wonder briefly about why this couldn't be done on the bed.

His smirk returns with a vengeance as he pushes my legs to bend and I'm forced into a position reminiscent of our predecessor. His amusement is almost offensive and I allow my legs to drop, drape about his shoulders and assume an expression of boredom. But it proves difficult to remain indifferent when his mouth engulfs me completely, not a hard task, I'm sure, but surprising all the same.

Mello's eyes are still locked with mine as his tongue slithers around my member, cheeks hollowing as he sucks. The heat is almost overwhelming, but I do not let my eyelids droop, even as his teeth are added into the equation, scraping along the hardened flesh. Fingers perform a frenzied dance across every expanse of my pale skin within easy reach. My inner thighs quiver as they are treated to harsh pinches and the occasional apologetic massage. The blood that hasn't seeped into my groin begins a rapid climb to my face, which, judging by the increasingly ardent swirling of his tongue, pleases Mello. I don't realize that I've been holding my breath until black-painted nails graze my stomach and hipbones and I have to gasp for air, a bit grateful that he can't see my toes curling behind his back. The rosary that knocks against his chest as his head bobs up and down glares at me accusingly, its presence makes the situation that much more surreal.

He moves away as a pooling sensation fills my abdomen and leaves me with a painful erection, so reluctantly that it appears he hadn't thought this far ahead. Maybe it's just not what he expected. Mello's smirk crinkles the edges of impossibly blue eyes when he gives the tip a hard flick and croons, "Poor _little_ thing."

The pain, the need to release, is problematic and almost impossible to ignore, but I refuse to say the words that will have that sadistic grin widening. My head is swimming and I'm sure my face is still flushed with the deliriousness of arousal, but I manage a breathy, "Mello didn't seem to mind so much when his mouth was wrapped around it."

"You might regret flaunting that wit," he snaps, gripping my shins and tugging me forward enough that my hips slide off the cushion. A dry finger is brought to my entrance and, indignant, I wrench away from his grasp as best as I can manage. I wouldn't be surprised if he took pleasure in causing me pain, but I'll be damned if I let him so easily.

He brushes blond strands away from his eyes, hand sweeping across the scarred portion of his face as he does so, and I find myself wanting to feel the mangled skin beneath my fingertips. "Don't you have anything I can use, then?" Mello's growl is impatient and husky.

"I was not exactly anticipating this." It's not a complete lie; did he truly expect me, of all people, to have lubricant on hand?

I almost wish I did, because at that, Mello's eyes spark, struck with sudden inspiration. He's always been imaginative and though it's an impressive quality, it has never led me to a good experience.

He takes me by the wrist and drags me from the chair. I stumble slightly from the force as he leads me to the bed and feel some self-satisfaction to see the outline of his clothed erection straining against leather and laces. I can't picture what he has planned, not convinced I want to know.

A gloved hand places itself on my chest and a brief, amused smile flashes on his lips, I assume because he can feel the rapid beats of my heart. My head knocks against the wall when I'm pushed backward, with Mello kneeling before me. He lifts my hand to his lips and, although he seems embarrassed, trails chaste kisses across pale knuckles. I would understand if the act was intended to make me feel uncomfortable and confused, but he is showing coyness that I don't believe I possess. I make no remark, not wanting a wound to match the one now occupying my thigh.

Three digits are enveloped in moist warmth, tongue coating my fingers, his cheeks hollowed with a familiar sucking motion. I'm a bit confused, but don't know what I was expecting.

A fragile web of saliva connects my fingertips to his mouth until he speaks, causing the delicate string to snap. "Prepare yourself." He guides my own hand to my entrance.

For a moment, I simply stare. I open my mouth to tell him that the notion is perverse, but stop myself. This whole situation is perverse. A smile tugs at my lips. "Mello must ask nicely."

Mello doesn't ask for things, he takes them. He reaches down yet again and manipulates my finger, forcing a single damp digit past rings of contracting muscle. He assists me in making thrusting motions into my own entrance, until I'm doing it myself and biting my lip to keep pathetic whimpers to a minimum.

I train my eyes on Mello, who peels off his leather pants with ease, freeing his own painful-looking erection. His gaze lingers on my face before darting down to the finger that plunges in and out of my sweat-dusted body. "Say my name," he whispers, transfixed.

It's humorous, how he must think that he is controlling my actions at this point. With the fascination he seems to have at everything I do, is that really the case? "Nngh…_Mello_," I gasp. But I can't say that I'm in complete command of myself at this point, either.

He gives his ignored erection a few strokes, groaning, yet still managing to sound harsh and demanding. "Add another…Near."

If one finger was peculiar, two are uncomfortable. I doubt that another digit would fit, much less Mello. A well-aimed thrust slams fingers against my prostate.

"Mm-ah!" Breathing becomes a task that requires conscious effort.

In a rough tone only Mello seems to possess, he urges, "Stretch them apart."

I make a deliberately frail attempt, not really seeing what good it will do in the long run; it's impractical, especially given the already abnormal position that is required for my fingers to be forced into my body. As I scissor the digits half-heartedly apart, I'm unsure if it is painful or pleasurable. Either way, I let loose a shaky moan.

Mello seems to come to his senses somewhat. That or he's becoming impatient, which is more likely. He leans forward, smoothing damp curls away from my face. "You should see yourself right now. And I've barely even touched you yet." His lips suction to a patch of skin right below my earlobe, I can feel it bruising.

That makes little sense; am I not the one being stared down by sharp eyes? "Mello is one to talk," I pause to gesture at his stiff member that has yet to be touched by me, and only briefly by him.

An animalistic, guttural hybrid of snarl and groan passes from between his lips and he smacks my hand away from my entrance; the loss feels strange and I cannot help but squirm from the sudden emptiness. Mello replaces my fingers with the tip of his member and begins to push himself inside and despite my previous stretching and the lubrication of his pre-ejaculate, I feel as if I'm being split in two. Instinctively, my body clenches around the intrusion and my eyes well with tears that won't be shed.

As if to comfort or distract me, Mello circles an arm around my torso and pulls my body into his; crushes his mouth to mine and treats my lips to small nips and hints of his tongue, hand placed firmly on the back of my neck. It seems an odd time for a kiss, but his tongue plunging rhythmically in and out of my mouth distracts me from my thoughts. I know little about what's expected of me, but the attempts I make have Mello moaning into my mouth. Not that I can say anything, as whimpers and mewls are pouring effortlessly out of my own body.

I take the opportunity to bring my hand to the left side of his face, feeling the rough scar tissue beneath the soft pads of my fingers. I run a path down his face to his shoulder, reveling in the surprisingly pleasant sensation of the marred flesh and he shudders; the skin there must be sensitive. My muscles relax against his and he sheaths himself inside of me completely. Was that the only reason for the kiss?

"Mel-Mello!" My nails bite into any bare flesh available as the quick, shallow thrusts of his body rock mine. A strangled cry rips from my throat, making it obvious when he finds the bundle of nerves that seems to drive me insane with lust when pressed against; lust I didn't know lurked within me.

And suddenly, Mello stops, leaving the tip of his penis resting against my prostate. Inexplicably, much like his tongue on the chocolate bar, but perhaps not so pointlessly.

I lift my eyes to meet his spite-filled blues. I don't dare to ask why he stopped, to imply that I'd like for him to continue.

"Beg."

Such a simple word, but what an impact it makes. I refuse to be reduced to pleading and, by the look of things, it won't be necessary. Blond strands are plastered by sweat to Mello's forehead; eyes clouded over with lust and something much darker, hips quivering against my body with unstable self-control. It won't take much for him to abandon the ridiculous notion.

Mello groans when I roll my hips into his. At least, I think he does. It's getting harder to distinguish which sounds are being made by whom at this point, but I don't think either of us much cares.

That rolling of my hips seems to have been enough of a plea for Mello, because he lifts me up off of and into him; encourages me to impale myself onto his member, which I do, dizzied with sense-numbing physical gratification and desire to please Mello, to make him come before myself.

I constrict my passage, tightening around his arousal in attempt to have him finish before me. But he refuses to give up and truthfully, I'd be disappointed if he surrendered so easily. Mello's fingers, long and warm, wrap around my own erection and treat it to a few strokes, quick and light.

"Hahhn-ah!"

The sensation of being completely filled wracks my frame as Mello spills his seed inside me. The force of his final few thrusts presses my need between our stomachs; that small amount of friction being the final factor in pushing me over the edge and staining our exhausted bodies with come.

My eyes droop shut as I all but roll off of Mello and onto the bed next to his warm body, filled with smug satisfaction of holding out longer than he was able to. He isn't acknowledging the fact and for a moment, the possibility that he is irritated resonates with me and I struggle to lift my heavy lids.

Sharp chin poised on the back of his hand, he simply stares at my face for a few moments, so I don't take notice of what his hand is doing until I feel a fingertip rubbing against the soft flesh of my stomach. He dips his finger in the salty remnants of my orgasm and I can't help but be a little conflicted at my body's natural reaction, but the slight bashfulness is forgotten as I watch Mello raise his come-coated fingertip to his lips and suck it off, the satisfaction present on his face rivaling that of when he indulges in chocolate.

Curiosity gets the better of me; surely such a substance can't be so delectable. I swipe a bit of come onto my own finger and lift it to my mouth, but Mello grips my wrist before I'm able to lick the digit and inserts it into his own mouth, tongue taking its time to swirl around the knuckle, dip into the crevasses of my skin. I feel a blush dusting my cheeks; he smirks and takes a bit more of my essence onto his finger, this time holding it up to my mouth. I can't say it's as appealing as Mello makes it seem; not to me.

I'm surprised I find such simple actions so alluring, yet can't be too shocked at Mello's relentless ability to captivate me. He's always wanted me to be as intoxicated with him as he is with me. Am I allowing it to finally happen? Am I slipping?

"Mello…" I begin thoughtfully. He cuts me off by placing a kiss to my lips, one that I return. He inches our bodies closer together.

A sadistic smile splits his face. "Go on."

"I was thinking of how, for the majority of our lives, I have been number one. Near comes before Mello."

Ice-chip eyes narrow dangerously, but he makes no move to separate us.

I let my own smirk crawl onto my own lips. "But this time, that was not so."

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. "…Near."

"Mello?"

"Shut the fuck up."


	3. Aftermath

It isn't bright sunshine that has my eyes fluttering open much too early the next morning, nor is it the dull, throbbing pain coursing through my body. No, the reason for my alertness is the unfamiliar sensation of having another body shifting and making its unconscious self more comfortable during slumber.

I feel groggy. So much so that I hardly glance at the softly snoring blond beside me, noticing instead that the blinds are shut and the curtains drawn, something that Mello must have done after I'd submitted to the temptress of sleep because I distinctly remember the room being relatively bright the day prior. How long had he been up after I'd drifted off? He had seemed tired enough, but it's not a stretch to assume that he has more stamina for sexual activity than I. Still, it's strange that he had done such a thing with the intent of prolonging our sleep, almost as strange as waking up next to Mello is in itself.

Looking down at the sleeping man, I realize that he had removed his vest during the night and, judging from the slight elevation of the sheets that covers his legs, hadn't bothered to dress for bed. Not that I can say much, as I am still without pants. My shirt still hangs on my body and, despite it being a bit askew, it seems Mello had refrained from removing my remaining garment, for which I am grateful. But does it show respect for my privacy (of which he had shown little the night before) or revulsion? It is too early to consider the thought properly.

Predictably, Mello is a restless sleeper, forever stretching long limbs and tossing erratically. Even his face doesn't look like that of someone who is resting and rejuvenating their body; blue eyes are lightly shut but his brow is furrowed, mouth turned down in what might be a frown but looks more like a sneer and his uneven breathing makes for haphazard rising and falling of his bare chest, rosary having slid and tangled during his nighttime thrashings. But who is to say that his expression isn't always pained during sleep? Perhaps it is night terrors that haunt his unconscious and make his face twist so starkly, or perhaps he is never peaceful.

Slowly, I bring my hand to the rosary hanging twisted against between his throat and shoulder and unravel the cord, spreading it so the beads lie comfortably against his chest. The closed eyes twitch slightly at the sudden contact and for a moment, Mello seems to be unconsciously irritated by my touch and I consider retracting my hand but persist, letting the warm weight of my hand rest heavily against his collarbone. The furrowed brow smoothes out as something akin to a contended sigh permeates the air as the sole noise in the room.

As fascinating as watching Mello sleep is, I feel a shower is necessary and scoot myself to the edge of the bed slowly, ignoring the pain that rockets up my spine and to the tips of my fingers and toes. The shuffling my sock-feet make against the lush carpet is loud to my ears, but Mello seems unaffected, simply burying his blond head into the portion of the bed that is still warm from my body heat.

I lean against the cool tile of the shower, allowing the hot water to sooth my aching muscles just for a short while; I have never been one to linger in the shower, but movement is now something I dread. The downpour helps, steam and heat easing the dull pain my muscles cling to. My feeble legs begin to tremble and I hastily begin to wash myself, not knowing how long it will be until the limbs give out from under me, potentially causing a nasty incident.

Something about the rhythm of massaging shampoo into my curls wakes me further, unfamiliarity of both lusty haze of the night before and exhaustion of just a few minutes ago suddenly vanishing altogether; I am again thinking clearly and immediately feel more at ease because of it. Behind my eyelids, I make a quick calculation of times. Combining from when I arrived at the hotel to the point Mello and I became intimate, adding it to the amount of time we spent engaging in said activities along with the approximate hours we spent sleeping, the time is now about 9:13 am, quite the deviation from my usual morning routine. What time is designated for checking out of the hotel? Never mind that, but how long will Mello's reservation of the room last? I reach forward to shut the water off before exiting the slippery shower and re-dressing myself as quickly as I can manage.

Mello is still asleep on the bed when I enter the bedroom, sheet having slipped down and drawing my eyes to the androgynous frame, wiry muscles just noticeable beneath subtly tanned expanses of skin that stretch across his contours, taut and smooth, save the scarring of his features, which is uniquely exquisite in its own right. He now seems more relaxed, tranquil. I lower myself to sit beside him, the bed being the location closest to the telephone. Hugging a leg to my chest, I indulge in the twisting of a lock of hair before lifting the receiver and cradling it between my shoulder and ear with the intent of speaking to someone stationed at the front desk. I realize when my ear is not subjected to a dial tone that the phone has been disconnected.

I can practically feel the muscles moving in his face as a smirk fixes itself onto Mello's lips and swivel my head. I had hardly given it a second thought upon entering the room, but it is no wonder why his sleep was so strangely undisturbed. Completely alert, Mello returns my stare, sapphire eyes gleaming behind golden wisps as he spins the phone cord around his finger.

"I take it you weren't planning on ordering us room service?"

Is this an attempt to leave me disoriented? Without a doubt, I'm more certain of the time than he is, seeing as he must have woken up not ten minutes ago. The look on his face is almost haughty and I intend to ride his tangent before responding. My lids lower in a leisurely, single blink.

He presses on. "Nothing to say, Near? Even after last night?"

I'm truly ignorant to what he expects; it's not as if I have experience in this area. What does one say after intercourse? Am I obligated to acknowledge what we've done; why am I the one who has to make reference to it?

Not willing to admit my unpreparedness, I choose to respond in such a way that has been considered acceptable in not only popular culture, but past cultures as well.

"I love you," I lie. Is it a lie?

Mello's smile flickers to something dark and twisted before he barks out in derisive laughter. "You don't know what love is."

He pushes me back into the pillows and positions his nude form over me, threading his long fingers into my damp hair and yanking my head to the side. The cross, warm from his heat, rests on my own chest, so close is his body to mine. Rough-textured tongue makes a long line from collarbone to just under my ear, the spot that still sports a purplish bruise and gives it a hard nip, painful due to its sensitivity. "Near...the only reason you've experienced _any_ emotion is because of me."

There is some truth to that. Back at the orphanage, Mello introduced me to the wonders of fear and, though not an emotion per se, the sensation of physical pain. Now he is able to add lust to the short list. Is that really something to be proud of? Such a small victory, if one could even call it that. I say nothing, knowing my silence causes him irritation.

I take the rosary's cross in my hand, running my fingers over its contours and can hear Mello's breath catch in his throat, feel his muscles tense. The symbols of his faith are precious to him and he's always been reluctant to allow other people to look at them, let alone touch them. I can even recall an instance in which an orphan mistook Mello's decrepit Bible with a broken spine for an old library book and took it; the boy spent a lonely three days in the infirmary. My eyes are strained as I closely examine the portrayal of Christ's crucifixion. The detail work is so meticulous, it's almost eerie. I can see the nails forced through the tiny hands and feet, the intricate crown of thorns circling Jesus' head, gashes and whip marks adorning his bare, malnourished body. Some may doubt Mello's faith but, however senseless I believe it to be, I know he wouldn't invest so much time and painstaking care into such a strict religion if it didn't hold his reverence and devotion.

I can't help but to ask. "Did Mello say his prayers last night?"

His eyes flash; he thinks I'm mocking him. Maybe I am.

"What's it to you? Don't change the subject," he snaps, leaning back with the intent to pull the rosary from my grasp. I thread the beads through my fingers and don't loosen my grip; he could still pull away, but remains in place with his face a few inches from mine. The fading scent of sex and chocolate lingers on skin and silky blond hair.

My voice is hushed. "I have not finished looking." When did we lose the almost playful banter of the night before to yet another power struggle?

Mello slips the rosary over his head and places it around my neck, tucking it underneath my shirt so the warm metal sits against my flesh. "Look as long as you like."

"I have an investigation to return to."

His lip curls. "You're not the only one."

He lifts his body from mine and heads to the bathroom, snatching his clothes on the way. Since he doesn't bother with shutting the door, I can clearly hear the sounds of water running, what I can assume to be Mello urinating, and the squeak of leather as I make a telephone call to Rester requesting he come to the hotel to escort me back to the SPK.

By the time the call is finished, I can no longer hear any sign of Mello and amble around the suite looking for him before deciding he's gone. A scrap of paper on an end table catches my eyes.

_Near--_

_I'll need that rosary back eventually._

I don't know whether to smirk or roll my eyes. Mello thinks he's clever, doesn't he?

* * *

_A/N: Will Mello get his rosary back? Oh, the suspense! Sorry about the rather short update, but I didn't really have anything planned past the lemon and people seemed to want to see more of this. Unfortunately, the time frame I've chosen suggests I'll be wrapping this up pretty soon…be prepared for (more) angst._

_As always, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it._


	4. Farewell

_A/N: With this, "Manipulation" is complete. I was prepared to write another chapter, but after doing my research (i.e. reading the last four volumes of the manga again), I realized that would be unnecessary._

_The -x-'s are there to show time passing, just to avoid some confusion. To be safe, I'll mention that I've incorporated some dialogue from straight out of the (English) manga, and those conversations belong solely to Ohba and Obata (as does all of DN, of course). I'm sure you'll be able to recognize which bits of dialogue I'm referring to, but I'll be happy to clarify if need be._

* * *

Regarding the investigation, everything is going smoothly. It's almost _too_ easy.

Light Yagami and his people are incompetent, unbelievably so. It was not a question of _if_ one of the Task Force members would step forward voluntarily, but of _when_.

And Shuichi Aizawa has certainly been helpful and compliant, though he seems to think his presence is of more value than it really is, but people do like to hold themselves in high regard. After an empty thank you, he must have realized that was as good as it was going to get and, with Mogi in tow, continued about his less-than-merry way.

Mello hasn't been making many, if any, noticeable movements. From the hints Lidner had dropped after my prompting, I can assume he's keeping tabs on Misa Amane and has made the connection that Light Yagami is the second L and Kira. The vision of Mello listening to the painfully shallow girl while Matt follows her every move is exasperating, because I know that the two can do something so much more useful than waste their time watching video feeds. Then again, who am I to say they aren't doing anything more or making progress by operating that way? I haven't had contact with Mello since that morning in the hotel room.

They don't know about Teru Mikami, of that I'm sure. Had they somehow figured out that he was performing the killings, they would see the futility of continuing to spy on Amane. Even if Mello has given Matt the duty of tailing Mikami, Gevanni would be able to recognize his face.

Not for the first time, I think of how much more effective our investigations would be if Mello would agree to cooperate with me. I lack the action and he lacks the calm. _Damn._

We both have our pride, though. We are too obstinate. Would L be proud of his successors? He must be, or he would have never left things how he did; wouldn't have left such an important decision unmade.

I curl Mello's rosary around my index finger tightly, the beads leaving miniscule indents in my flesh.

_I'll need that rosary back eventually._

I'm taking those words as more of a promise than anything else. But somehow, I can't picture Mello storming into the SPK and taking his tarnished symbol of faith from its place around my neck. Partly because if I were to meet with Mello again, I believe he'd have me go to him because the stakes are so high. And I know that when I must relinquish the beaded treasure, it won't be without hesitance.

Lidner's sudden appearance on the monitor pulls me from my musings.

"…But the conversation seemed to be only about which of them was 'his,' in other words, Light Yagami's girlfriend."

Predictably, the Commander turns to me. "What does this mean, Near?"

"What this proves," I begin, taking the Amane and Takada figures and snuggling them against the toy labeled L/Light/Kira, "…is that Light Yagami is a lady killer." My thoughts wander again to Mello.

"Near, seriously…" Rester trails off, as if tempted to chastise me, a cheeky child.

I suppress the urge to sigh. He misunderstands me, mistakes me for one to put humorous spins on serious situations. Omitting the 'please let me finish' I so desperately want to include, I cut in. "But being seriously infatuated can be a problem. They won't betray him that easily…no, he can control them as he wants…"

I may not be thinking clearly. Why am I reading so much into my own statements; thinking of mine and Mello's relationship while speaking of Light Yagami's? The assessment is not applicable because the one Mello and I share is one of equal need for control. Neither of us will submit to the other, we adamantly refuse to do anything of the sort.

When Gevanni contacts us with news that Mikami's talking to himself, I'm almost grateful for the distraction.

-x-

Pictures of infinite pages fill countless monitor screens. Rester seems almost befuddled by the sight, but I remain unaffected. As I've said before, I'm good at looking.

"What do you think, Near?"

"Yes, Gevanni has done well." Obviously not the response he is after.

"That's not what I meant!"

"The handwriting on this matches Mikami's handwriting on the investigation records he wrote as a prosecutor. It must be written by Mikami."

"Right," he agrees readily.

I allow a smile to twist on my face, though it is as much of a grimace as it is a grin. "Yes…looks like I can put my plan into action."

-x-

It's reduplicative paramnesia. Déjà vu, if you will. It must be.

The image of Mello striding in view of our monitors, red leather hooding his scarred and angular face, Rester turning to me, asking what it is that he should do; I've seen this all before.

I reward his questioning with a blank stare. "Please let Mello in."

"Sir, were you expecting him?"

"I don't know."

With a nervous glance back at the monitor, the Commander enters the code that has the metal doors gliding open, revealing Mello's leather-clad form. It is a strange feeling, seeing him in those clothes, knowing I've seen what lies beneath them; touched and appreciated what the slick leather dares to hide.

This is reality, it seems.

"Welcome, Mello. Commander Rester, that will be all."

"But, sir," he splutters out the beginning of a useless protest. Does he really think I require his protection? I spent the night with Mello not long ago and emerged unharmed. Then again, perhaps that is why he intends to be present.

"Please don't make me repeat myself." My tone is absolute, and the man leaves without another word.

"You've trained him well, Near," Mello remarks snidely. He doesn't expect me to respond, so I don't. I simply watch as he approaches me.

Sapphire eyes smolder and settle on the finger puppets I've been working on. His is completed already; the effort I put into it was almost painstaking. As I decorated the smirking face with a delicate scar that wound across the left side, I was reminded of the unsettling detail present on Mello's rosary.

He snorts, juts his sharp chin in the direction of the only finished puppet. "I'm flattered."

"As you should be."

He bends down to scoop up his puppet likeness as I begin to struggle to my feet, and we collide on our journeys. I lose my balance and reach my hand out instinctively for support, resulting in my fingers curled, claw-like, around the smooth material of Mello's jacket.

A long-fingered hand rests on my hip, I suppose to steady me. "Standing up? Surely my presence doesn't warrant such an honor." Black-tipped nails work their way up my shirt and cause friction. He finds the place where the rosary rests underneath the gentle cotton fabric and gives the cross a sharp tap. "My rosary."

I remove the beads from around my neck and take them in my palm, hold them up to him so the crucifix dangles from between my knuckles. My hand opens and the red and black beads lying flat on my palm contrast brilliantly with pale flesh. "Mello, I–" I'm not quite sure what I'm about to say, if I'm readying myself to ask if I may keep the rosary or something else entirely.

He curls my fingers around it. Again, I feel the beads making small indents in my skin with how tight my hold of the thing is. "Keep it. Where I'm going, I won't need it."

I hardly have time to ponder what he's insinuating with that statement, much less respond, because suddenly his lips are covering mine and blond wisps are resting on my cheeks. His pace is not harsh, but it is insistent, soft lips pressing hard against my mouth. I return the kisses; I _need_ to return them and do so in a way that feels natural to me, prolonging the kisses, wordlessly asking for him to slow down. Somehow, we are able to meet somewhere in the middle and I know that I'm losing myself in his embrace when my limbs seem to liquidate.

He knows he is going to die and has resigned himself to that fate. I envision blue eyes wide and clouded and clutch harder at his jacket to keep myself upright because of it. I slip the rosary into his jacket pocket as our tongues and lips continue to clash, not wanting the fiery blond whose arms hold me to die without keeping his personal savior close. I know he feels the metal weigh his jacket down, he knows that I know he feels it. We keep silent and let each other pretend.

_It didn't have to be this way._ Even in my head, the words ring false. There was no other way this could have been. We weren't expected to work flawlessly together and catch Kira as a unit; the rivalry that has plagued us is too deeply ingrained. It could even be said that L planned for one of us to die at the other's expense, or at least accepted it as an inevitability.

I don't ask myself, why Mello? Not ever. Impetuous, bold, emotional Mello would always be the one most likely to put his life on the line. I could offer myself, sure, but that wouldn't be right. Like Christ, the man so atrociously splayed on the cross of the rosary in a crimson jacket pocket, Mello will die in such a way that ensures he will be forever remembered, at least by a few; a young and beautiful man sacrificing himself, modestly yet nobly, for something far bigger than himself. I don't think for one moment that Mello is altruistic, however. If I should fail, he won't have to be around to witness Kira's reign at the top.

Our chests are heaving slightly as we break apart and I indulge in one long look, knowing it will be my last. He even _looks_ holy, or at least angelic, flaxen hair framing his face in something halo-like and ethereal. Jagged scar, body-hugging leather, wiry muscles lurking beneath smooth skin, eyes bluer than blue; I've seen it all before and then some, but the images seem to swell and crash over me in icy waves. Coming to my senses, I almost reprimand myself for ogling when I realize that his eyes are still roaming my frame and he's committing every detail of me to his memory, too.

Then he's gone, disappeared in a flash of leather and a hint of chocolate. It feels emptier than usual when I slump to the floor and don't move for an exceptionally long time.

-x-

"Near."

"Mello."

"I'm headed for a church in Nagano. Halle's on her way."

"This will prove that the notebook Mikami possesses is a fake."

"It seems I've saved your life."

"Mello…"

"Catch the bastard, Near. For L, Matt…"

"…for you."

"If for no one else, do it for dear Mello."

_Click._

-x-

"Commander Rester, Lidner, Gevanni…let's put our best into this, shall we?"


End file.
